


What Once Was

by stitchcasual



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Angst, Bittersweet Reunion, Hawke is an idiot, M/M, Red Hawke, Warrior Hawke - Freeform, Weisshaupt Fortress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 05:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Hawke left Fenris to go help Varric and the Inquisition. Now Fenris has rejoined him at Weisshaupt and they have to deal with what happened.





	What Once Was

**Author's Note:**

> From [tumblr](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/162593031709/empty-kiss-for-fenhawke), an anon requested an "empty kiss"  
> So much fun, I live for angst tbh

In the end, the Wardens let him stay. Not out of any real sense of hospitality or gratitude, he can tell, but more because he’s claimed a corner of their training yard as his own and none of the Wardens feel like challenging him on it to make him leave. That and their Warden-Commander hasn’t issued any decrees specific to Hawke’s welcome, or to anything really, so the Wardens are in a sort of holding pattern, trying to avoid milling restlessly in front of the stranger. But Hawke doesn’t care about the weaknesses he can trace like fault lines through their command structure: the Wardens mean nothing to him. Or, he’d rather they meant nothing. He can’t fully separate these Wardens from the ones in the Free Marches who coerced his father into using blood magic, magic that Malcolm would then apply to his own son in hopes of gaining a stronger protector for the family, magic that would ultimately bring Hawke to the Vimmarks years later to kill Corypheus, the monster his father helped seal before Hawke was born, so Hawke  _ could _ be born.

And yet Corypheus is not dead and these Wardens, unmoved by Hawke’s account of what happened at Adamant Fortress and in the Fade, the loss of one of their own, do not stir themselves to the aid of their brothers to the south. Hawke, his message delivery job done as a final, personal favor to Stroud’s memory, itches to leave yet he does not. Instead he pitches his tent in his corner of the training yard, half under the eaves of the battlements, and waits. He hunts his own game and slowly portions out the last of the provisions he brought when he left Adamant, and for that he can tell the Wardens are relieved. Their cook had sized him up his first night at Weisshaupt, the only time he let them feed him, and blanched: Hawke has nearly a full head and twenty-five pounds on their largest man.

“Try to make friends, Killer,” Varric had told him as they stood outside the ruined husk of Adamant after it all. The dwarf clapped him on the forearm and attempted a carefree grin. But even Varric was having trouble with those these days.

Hawke snorted. “All of my friends have led me into violent confrontations I’ve barely escaped from. I don’t need more friends. Just...tell Fenris where I’ve gone.”

And so Hawke waits, unsure if Fenris will deign to show after all that Hawke had done to keep him from following. He has to give it a few months before he knows for sure. Hawke had plotted out the route Fenris was most likely to take from where they’d parted ways, factored in some time for incidents along the road, and then added in another week or two of time that Fenris may take just to make Hawke sweat. He knows about when Fenris should show up if he’s going to.

In the end, Fenris takes another week to show. Instead of allowing Hawke to destroy parts of Weisshaupt with his pacing and frustration, the second-in-command to the Warden-Commander took Hawke’s nervous energy and directed it toward honing his charges. When he’s not out hunting, Hawke faces off against the Wardens, his greatsword flashing in the sun, sending everything he possibly can against these soldiers. Lieutenant Renton gave his blessing for Hawke to hold nothing back, so he unleashes Smites, staggering his opponents back to press his advantage, Devours the life essence of the truly foolish when they slip up, though never enough to kill them, and Sacrifices his own health in order to truly test their limits against his frenzy. 

He’d been given a wide berth since he first came to Weisshaupt, but that had been more wariness of strangers. The distance he’s given now is tempered with respect and more than a little fear. They know what he’s capable of, know it takes a hell of a lot to put this Reaver-Templar on his ass...because it’s never happened in all the time they’ve tried.

He hears rather than see Fenris when he arrives, that low, gravelly voice resonating in his bones as he parries a particularly lucky strike from one of the Wardens. The exact words being exchanged are lost, scattered amid the clattering of steel on steel, the grunts of exertion, but Hawke can  _ feel _ them singing through his body. He nearly misses the blow from another Warden and has to back up, losing ground in order to regain his footing. That move puts a gleam in the Wardens’ eyes, overconfidence in their steps, as they advance on him. He plays along, stalling for time as the thrum of Fenris fades from his muscles so he can concentrate again, and drops one hand from the hilt of his sword to really sell the bit. The Wardens exchange a look, press their advantage...and lose the fight.

One swings high while the other swings low, intending to force him further off balance, to have to choose which strike to block and which to let hit. It's a strategy that would have worked had the upper hand actually belonged to the Wardens as they assumed. Instead it puts them directly where Hawke wants them. He stabs his blade into the ground in front of him, blocking the low strike, and steps forward with one foot, grounding himself as he lashes out with a plated boot, catching the other Warden in the chest before he can bring his strike low enough. The Warden stumbles back and Hawke pulls his sword from the dirt and slashes at the other as she prepares to swing again, catching the nearly useless training armor she wears and cutting a line across it. She stares down at it, gaping, and Hawke shoulders her to the ground, resting the tip of his greatsword in the hollow of her throat. Her hand releases her sword in concession, and Hawke turns, focusing the power of a Smite in a small cone in front of him to halt the remaining Warden’s forward momentum before he gets too close. Hawke charges and presses the length of his blade into the man's throat. He grins, half a snarl, when he hears the man’s sword clatter to the ground.

“Your footwork is sloppy, Aimen,” he says, lowering his blade and extending a hand to help the downed Warden to her feet. “And you,” he levels a finger at the other, “never assume you’ve won until your enemy is dead. Overconfidence will kill you faster than steel.” He doesn't wait for a response from either of them, just shoulders his sword and heads back to his tent to care for his weapon.

The sight of Fenris sitting on the stool Hawke had appropriated from a supply cache stutters his stride. He'd  _ heard _ Fenris, yes, but that still hadn't fully translated into understanding that he would see him, much less see him in a graceful sprawl atop the stool amid Hawke’s things as though it had always belonged to him and Hawke and the Wardens had simply been borrowing it. Fenris looks up from sharpening his Blade of Mercy, the whetstone's progress down the edge not slowing one jot. His green eyes blink once, slowly, as if acknowledging Hawke’s presence, and then he turns his attention back to his sword. Hawke remains where he is for another few minutes, frozen watching Fenris, before he carefully picks his way around the elf on the stool to grab his oiling cloth from the line and his whetstone and oil from his pack at the back of the tent. 

Normally he’d sit on the stool, stretch one leg out, and use it as a support for sharpening. But with Fenris occupying that space, he’s at somewhat of a loss for where to go. He stands behind Fenris for another minute, tools clutched in his hands, before he huffs out a breath, takes a few steps forward, and drops to the ground. The space between them is not vast, but it is large enough to allow a fully armored soldier through. Hawke wiggles a little, folding one leg and extending the other, attempting a parody of his usual set up. He manages something close enough eventually, and he and Fenris sit side by side but on unequal ground as they separately clean, sharpen, and oil their blades.

It’s a comfortable enough routine, something they’ve done together countless times before, only now it drags on Hawke. He can feel the weight of the months he’s spent away from Fenris’s side, the enormity of what he did in order to leave settling over his shoulders and filling the air between them. His hands are sure as he cleans the blade, rubs the nicks out, and files the edges back to his desired sharpness, but his breaths catch in his throat sometimes and his eyes keep trying to look up at Fenris.

Fenris says nothing so Hawke says nothing, and when he's done with his sword, he sets to work on the assortment of daggers he keeps on and around his person. One blade is never enough. Even the greatest warriors can be disarmed. And anyway, what good is a greatsword in skinning game? When he’s finished with those few weapons, he re-homes them, one at his belt, one in his boot, and two in his gear. Fenris carefully sets the Blade of Mercy on the ground and begins to sharpen his own belt knife, still not speaking or looking at Hawke. 

It’s becoming increasingly unclear to Hawke what the protocol on this reunion is. All he knows is that Fenris is here, which in itself means a lot. It means perhaps he can be forgiven, in time. It means all is not lost, though it may appear to be. What else it means, he doesn’t know. If Fenris won’t talk to him, won’t give him any indication of his feelings or intentions, all Hawke can do is operate in the dark. He hates the dark.

So he makes an effort to throw himself back into the routine he had fallen into before Fenris’s arrival, sheathing his greatsword and hanging it on a line within easy reach from most anywhere he could go in the little space that belongs to him in this corner. Then he sets to preparing dinner, enough for two, tossing chunks of yesterday’s roast hen in a pot with some water and savory herbs he’d found in the wild lands around Weisshaupt on his last expedition outside of the walls. The pot goes on a flat rock beside the fire he stokes, and he watches it for a short while, making sure the broth starts to bubble satisfactorily and stirring it.

Finally Fenris puts his knife and whetstone away and sits silently, hands clasped between his knees, staring out at the Wardens’ training ground. The firelight dances off his profile in the slowly gathering darkness, the sun just beginning to make its way below the horizon, and Hawke can’t help but stare at the eery flickers of fire against Fenris’s lyrium, ethereal, dangerous, and beautiful. It is a sight he has seen before, yet each time it takes his breath away. His heart longs to cross the space between them and take Fenris’s hands, to sit pressed up against his body as the night comes and watch the stars appear. His head knows that's a fantasy that cannot happen and turns his eyes back to the pot of food on the ground.

When the soup has boiled enough to blend the flavors from the herbs and chicken, he pours half out into his traveling bowl, grabs a spoon from his gear, and steps closer to offer it to Fenris. Fenris’s green eyes widen first in surprise, then narrow in suspicion, and finally settle back into a neutral gaze as he accepts the bowl with a nod of thanks. He slowly scrapes the spoon through the soup, watching the tiny ripples that form and spread, and Hawke goes back to the pot, settling down across the fire from Fenris. While he waits for the thing to cool enough that he can handle it with his hands in order to eat, he strips off the few pieces of plate he'd worn to the practice that day.

Varric had conned the Inquisition's blacksmith into remaking the bits of the Champion armor that Hawke had sold to fund the tour he and Fenris took around the coast as slaver hunters. It had felt strange to wear the full set again after so long, like resurrecting ghosts from his past that he'd believed to be buried. Since arriving at Weisshaupt, he hadn't worn it a lot of it all the time, not needing the protection from either the local wildlife or the local Wardens. Usually he dons chestplate and greaves, occasionally vambraces or cuisse, depending. Some Wardens are more of a challenge than others.

He unstraps the greaves, brushing a few lingering metal shavings off them, and sets them carefully to the side. The armor is useful when he sharpens his sword, performing double duty as a blade rest and a guard against slicing his leg open. His chestplate, once something of a trick to fasten or remove by himself, has become, if not easy, then at least familiar enough over the past months to manage with minimal fuss. Fenris watches out of the corner of his eyes as he eats, and Hawke angles his head away as he focuses on the straps of his armor. He inspects the chestplate for damage and rubs at a bit of dirt before balancing it on top of the greaves.

Only then does he reach back out for the pot, feeling somewhat naked in just his leathers, brushing his fingers against the metal to test the temperature before picking it up and sipping lightly of the contents. He only has the one bowl, only needed one while he traveled alone. Fenris has his own gear. Hawke fishes out chunks of meat with his belt knife in between sips, biting the hen delicately from the newly honed blade. He can feel Fenris’s eyes on him occasionally and only makes the mistake of meeting his gaze once. The expression in his eyes is unreadable, an incomprehensible mask, and when Fenris turns away again Hawke is left to wonder if he’s been apart from Fenris for so long that he’s forgotten how to read him or if Fenris is deliberately hiding from him. Neither option is good.

Hawke collects Fenris’s bowl when he places it on the ground beside him and crosses the training yard to wash the pot, bowl, and spoon in the barrel of water the cook uses for his own dishes. He returns to his little camp to find Fenris exactly where he left him, hands again clasped between his knees, and busies himself with putting his gear back where it goes. Though he's been with the Wardens for a few months now, he still keeps what belongs to him in a tightly controlled camp, everything ready to go with a moment's notice. He has for nearly his entire life, on the move from Templars with his apostate father, even in Kirkwall where he'd arguably made a home and a life. It's just easier that way. Fenris had been the only true home he'd ever had, and he’d set that one on fire as surely as all the others.

But finally, there's nothing left to do but while the time away until he feels like sleeping. Or like pretending to sleep. With Fenris here and the air charged with static tension, he's not sure sleep will be forthcoming. Hawke has never been an incredibly patient man with matters that involve people, for the most part, three years of waiting for Fenris felt like dying each day, but now he waits. And waits a little longer. He paces the camp to dispel some of the energy, reaching out to touch his sword hanging from the line with each pass, and is just about to call it a night and throw himself down into his tent when Fenris stands from the stool.

The sun has nearly set and the only useful light source is the fire burning in Hawke's camp. A junior Warden makes the rounds of the walls, lighting the night torches. For a moment Fenris looks unsure, unsteady, and Hawke is in front of him in an instant without conscious thought, one hand reaching up toward Fenris’s face. He doesn't make contact, just hovers his hand there in the air, scant inches between them, unable yet to back away. Fenris’s eyebrows twitch on his otherwise emotionless face, his lips parting slightly. Hawke loses his breath. Fenris rises a little to put them more on a level, leaning forward with eyes half closed, arms at his sides, and presses his lips against Hawke’s.

Greater than the sense of shock, the wondering confusion, is the sensation of emptiness. Like he’s being kissed by a ghost, a shell of what once was. Hawke’s brown eyes are still open and he stands stock still, not even daring to move his hand down. The gulf between their bodies yaws and stretches, a cavernous pit that threatens to pull them both down. He watches Fenris’s hooded green eyes dart from one side of his face to the other, the furrow in his forehead becoming more pronounced, and sees the frown on his lips when he breaks away, sinking down to flat feet again. Fenris’s nostrils flare and he looks off at the middle distance to Hawke’s right, his lips pressed together, eyes narrowed.

Hawke lowers his hand, grips the leather seam at the outer edge of his thigh, and bows his head. He nods a few times and steps backward once, then twice, then turns and strides to his tent. A minute of rummaging around inside and he emerges with a blanket and a crumpled shirt, which he tosses to the ground near the fire after folding it to resemble a pillow, after a fashion. The blanket he flaps once and hangs over his arm, standing there on the opposite side of the fire from Fenris. The flames are dying, burning low into the coals, and Hawke squats down to bank the fire, collecting the coals into the center of his small fire ring and nudging the rocks closer around.

“The tent’s yours,” he says, not looking up from his task. 

Fenris doesn’t move until Hawke finishes banking the fire, and even then he stands for a while longer as Hawke removes his sword from the line and stretches out on the ground, the blanket beneath him, his sword beside him. This far north the nights are temperate and Hawke at least has the shelter of the battlements overhead should it rain while he sleeps. He can feel Fenris’s eyes on him though his are closed. Fenris’s gaze has a particular weight to it, a piercing quality even when Fenris isn’t looking at him with any specific intent. The urge to move grows but he fights it, pretends as best he can that he’s already fallen asleep, that he’s not wound like a bowstring as he waits to hear what Fenris decides to do. If Fenris were to leave, it would be no less than he deserves. If Fenris were to stay, it would be worth more than his life. He’s not sure which he hopes for.

Eventually Fenris grunts, soft and low, and Hawke hears his footsteps retreat toward the tent. He waits until he can’t make out any more sounds emanating from the tent then sits up, hunching over the tiny glowing embers. There will be no sleep for him for a while yet. In the morning, he’ll stoke the fire, gingerly feed it sticks and twigs until it can handle larger branches and logs. It’s a time-consuming process and one that’s easy to get wrong though incredibly satisfying when the flames accept the new fuel, catch and lick up the wood, creating something again from nearly nothing. Even should he accidentally smother it, snuff out the light in the coals, the ashes are useful as an addition to the cook’s garden, tempering the soil and allowing the plants there to grow better than before. Somehow, something survives either way.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9565367), [this](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/156487796052/writing-prompt-41-for-fenhawke-d), and [this](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/158157873894/17-for-fenhawke-because-that-seems-the-most) but it functions well enough on its own, I hope


End file.
